Empty Rooms
by SydnieWren
Summary: Byakuya does not need fairness; Renji does not expect it. If only it was as easy as that. RenjixByakuya. Anal, oral. Dark. Now back!


**Hey guys! This is my first Bleach fic to speak of. It's pretty dark, but I'm honestly proud of it. I hope you enjoy it! Please leave me a review!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

Cicadas chirped in the tall grass. The spindly stalks swayed in the soft midnight breeze, reaching toward the cloudless heavens with their split, brush-like leaves. High in the sky, the moon shone, accompanied by a river of cool, white stars. Their light was shed on the wings of the insects and night-flying birds below, impartial and vague. Though the air was temperate and mostly still, there was an immediate coldness about it, some unspoken chill that promised frost but delivered only cicadas chirping in the summer night.

It had been a long time.

Byakuya was a still man, a serene man. His calm wasn't of the tender sort; he wasn't peaceful, just settled, like stones amassed in river beds. Even when crowds bustled, he retained that same air of silence, of stillness, of empty rooms. It seemed impossible to disturb him, as if he was always in a state of meditation, and yet aware, sharply aware.

It wasn't really that way: Byakuya was always moving. When he moved, his grief trailed out behind him like a banner, unable to lay down over him and consume him. His mind shifted always, and when time was kind, his hands did as well. Papers to be filed, inquiries to consider, decisions to make, subordinates to manage, councils to attend. When there was no more to be done, he read or wrote, letters sometimes, that were never sent. Memos to himself, or he made lists of unrelated things, anything to avoid settling.

When he was still, he thought of Hisana, and his grief washed over him, and he sank like a stone.

It happened that way, some nights. He tried to tire himself out during the day, so that walking home with a dignified gait and managing the strength to change into his night clothes and lay down in bed was the most he could do. Dreamless, he slept. It suited him better than the alternatives.

It was, however, a night without sleep.

Byakuya sat behind his writing desk, brush in hand, poised, as though he expected the polished cherry wood table to provide him with a task. The ink well was still, not even a ripple on the surface. The paper was blank like a question mark.

The cicadas chirped a little beyond the sliding paper door.

He thought of Hisana.

Every day, she receded a little more, stayed in stasis while he was swept along by time. Sometimes he felt as though he could sense it physically, the distance between them. He thought she would understand, were she there, that he couldn't fight time, that it wasn't his choice.

If she were there. If she were there, even for an instant, he thought, he would make a photograph of her in his mind. The picture he kept was stunning, but there was so much more to her. There had been scars - accidents in childhood attached to quaint anecdotes, and memories - and moles, dimples, the contours of bones as she moved, the wisps of lightly curled hair at the nape of her neck, a thousand things he had ignored, taken for granted, believed he could access at any time.

He settled his brush down.

He wanted to have an argument, an arbitrary one, a stupid one. He wanted to bicker over who had misplaced something neither of them needed, or who had last seen to the garden, or who had said something silly in company. They had been luxuries, he realized, those arguments. And afterward: holding, fingers lightly brushing over the scalp, a kiss. Both of them had been far too dignified to ever apologize, so they agreed, chuckling, that it had been a misunderstanding on both their parts, but the meaning had been clear.

Byakuya found himself lacking in the strength to sit up. He felt that familiar tension forming between his shoulder blades, and his sinuses stung. It would be seconds, he knew, before his vision blurred. Oh, he didn't want to be thinking of this, not anymore. His brows knit together and he lay back on the wooden floor, turned his face to the side, didn't want to be seen, by anyone or even the heavens. Didn't want her to see him like that.

He thought of fairness.

Years of training in the ways of nobility had refined his mind enough to acquaint him with the idea of fairness. Fairness, he thought, was a low-class notion. Fairness was what people invoked when they wanted more than they had, when they envied, when they had no grounds to demean the aristocracy other than to accuse them of violating a right no one had ever promised them. Byakuya had never needed fairness; rather, the rich never needed fairness. The wealthy could fulfill all their needs, answer all their wants without it. In that way, they became exceedingly practical: they knew how they had come into their money, and they knew how to replicate the action enough to maintain the flow of wealth. Byakuya agreed, in his high-minded and pragmatic way, with all of this.

But his jaws tensed and his heart clenched when he reflected on it. Hisana was gone, and it wasn't fair.

Tears had begun to accumulate in his eyes. He laid his hand over them.

Every time such a night occurred, he was sure it would be the one to do him in. They would find him, he thought, in this position, with the tear streaks still lining his cheeks like rain dripping down petals after a storm. He could hear Yamamoto: what a shame.

But God, he thought. They knew nothing of the shame.

Night after night, he defiled her memory. A grown man, touching himself, coming in the way of adolescent boys, with that same gasping, sweating, panting, like an animal. When he thought of her, he softened in his hands. No other woman was worth considering, not compared to her. So what to think of?

Sleek muscle and an ardent, passionate manner unbefitting of aristocracy, but in perfect fitting with those rough seedlings that grew up from the filthy soil of the poor districts. Red hair, flashing eyes, and a body built of such power - such power.

A sob swelled up from deep in his chest and broke free, sounding in a strangled, throaty tone. Another followed, and another. Tears fell like raindrops onto the hardwood floor, and dampened his hair. His eyes stung. Everything stung.

From the moment he'd met Renji, he hadn't known what to make of him. Renji made him dizzy sometimes; he couldn't fathom him. He possessed that specific character of the poor, something wry and undefeatable, something that promised everything in his trajectory doom in no uncertain terms. In that, he saw Hisana embodied, and yet in a different form, a form far enough apart from his to remove a fraction of the guilt over his admiration.

Slowly, painfully, Byakuya drew himself up into a sitting position, though his shoulders sagged as though they bore an unimaginable weight. He stood and moved across the room, feeling the paneled walls further from him than usual, the ceiling higher, the floor colder. He stepped over the vacant writing desk and, from a chest near the pale paper door, drew out his night clothes. As he undressed, he thought of that thing everyone mentioned: his right to move on.

It wasn't a right, but he wanted it, despite the pit of guilt it formed in his stomach.

He slipped into bed, tasted the flavor of his own dry mouth. Thought of nothing, dreamed of less.

The next night, he called Renji to his home. He had purposefully kept the man busy the day before, running mostly pointless errands on foot, so that little of the necessary paperwork could feasibly be finished by their deadlines. It had felt much crueler than it was. Renji was usually on the run, he told himself. That day's to-do list wasn't all together unusual.

But he felt like sinking, all day.

At the close of the day, he had called Renji to his office, and indicated the stack of unfinished papers.

"The deadline is tomorrow." He announced in his curt, cool manner. Renji's eyes grew wide.

"I guess I could, uh, bring them home? Work on them tonight, I guess?"

"That is a preponderance of guessing." Byakuya countered. Implicit: I don't trust you. "We will finish them at my house, this evening. Seven o' clock."

Renji was stunned and for a moment, Byakuya felt his heart would stop. The fact of what he was doing hung so heavily in his mind he was sure that his fukutaichou would realize it immediately.

He didn't.

"Seven, yeah. Yes sir, I mean. Seven."

The rest faded in Byakuya's memory.

The hours that stretched between his arrival and the time of Renji's seemed to stretch on forever. In that time, Byakuya sorted out what was to be done in what order, and where it was all to be filed. Once it was sorted, he sorted it again. He brought out his writing desk and readied two brushes, two ink wells. Renji could be persuaded to produce quality work, when there were no alternatives.

Renji knocked and stood outside the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, practically squirming in place. There hadn't been time to investigate the proper etiquette for entering and remaining in a rich man's house. He had, honestly, no idea what to expect out of it: ornate gold fixtures, silk hanging all over the place, dishes made of diamonds and ivory wash basins? The door slid open and Byakuya stepped aside, opening his arm to invite his fukutaichou in. Gingerly, as though the dark, polished floor beneath his feet would shatter if too harshly approached, Renji moved inside, and immediate moved to remove his shoes. Byakuya beckoned Renji to follow him with a regal nod, and led him to what seemed to be a parlor - or did he sleep there? The redhead glanced about half-nervous, half-curious. The house was more elegantly appointed than he had supposed, hardly ostentatious. Wealth seemed apparent in everything, though he couldn't precisely identify how. The walls were dark in color, well polished, suitably bare save for two hanging wall scrolls, one bearing the Kuchiki family crest, the other containing a poem written in beautiful calligraphy.

"Did you write that?" Renji inquired, surprised by his own audacity.

Byakuya's dark eyes flickered up to the scroll. It seemed accusatory, as though the writer's presence knew his plan and disapproved.

"No." He replied evenly. "It is my great-grandfather's work."

"It's really impressive." Renji felt stupid once more. He let his gaze settle on the small writing desk situated on the floor. It was carved in the old style, all slender lines and angles. Following his taichou's cue, he sat down near it, and addressed a stack of papers.

"Start here, yeah?" He watched carefully for assent.

Byakuya nodded, and Renji tentatively took up a brush.

They worked as the moon rose. At the point at which Renji's hand felt cramped and his neck ached from craning, Byakuya rose and prepared tea, presenting it in a fine earthenware kettle, along with matching cups. The fukutaichou found himself highly impressed with the details, the smooth ridges like ripples in the greenish glaze, the delicately rounded lip. He drank slowly, clumsily mimicking the small sips of Byakuya.

The warmth of the tea in his stomach and throat only caused him to feel relaxed, and eventually, tired. High over head, the midnight moon became obscured by clouds, and Byakuya looked up from his work to peer out the window.

"It's terribly late." He muttered with a sigh. Renji tried to nod without too much enthusiasm; he didn't mean to seem ungrateful despite the circumstances.

"Should I…uh…?" Renji let the question trail off for lack of an eloquent way to ask if he should leave or not. The house itself seemed to instill a sense of reverence in him, as well as being so close to Byakuya in a sense he couldn't quite define.

"It would be irresponsible," Byakuya replied, "to leave now. But it is late." He cast a fleeting glance toward the redhead as he stood. "We should break to sleep and resume early."

"Here?" Renji asked incredulously, jaw slightly slackened, eyes opened wide and bright.

"Obviously." Came the cold reply. "There is a guest room, of course."

Of course. Renji offered a lopsided grin, wondering how he could have expected anything else. He swiftly capped off the ink well he had been using and then leapt to his feet, stretching his arms high in the air as joints in his back loosened pleasurably. Byakuya had already turned his back and moved through the door, silently inviting his fukutaichou to follow. Renji's feet made a great deal more noise on the floor as he scrambled after the man, who glided down the hall like a phantom.

Byakuya's pale fingers slid a particular door away from its frame, and Renji moved beside him to peer within. It excited him, staying in an aristocrat's house. Nothing else had ever even come close to matching the elegance of the place; it mirrored the dreams he had experienced while in the academy, fantasies of success in Sereitei. His lips parted in a wide grin.

"You will find night clothes in the chest," Byakuya indicated, "and a mat." He hesitated for a moment, and then added: "Make yourself at home."

When the door shut behind him, Renji felt a thrill rush through him.

On the way to his own chamber, Byakuya contemplated the nature of exploitation. He was well aware of the source of his fukutaichou's excitement, and how entirely conflicted he would feel when the later hours came.

Renji was poor, and staying in a wealthy man's house. As with most from Rukongai, he would feel obligated to show his gratitude, to surrender what he had in an exchange to preserve dignity. He had no money. He had his body. It would be hard for him to resist.

Byakuya hated it as surely as he had planned it.

In his room, he felt observed by the moonlight, by the cicadas in the grass, by the presence of those who had lived and died in the mansion. The feeling raised gooseflesh on his body as he stripped off the pieces of his uniform, aristocratic garb and all. Naked, he felt at once congruous with his plan.

For a time, he waited in that way. Still on the ground, he contemplated it, and held onto a thin hope of falling asleep. Though he drifted in and out of consciousness, he remained quite awake, though his blood felt like tar in his veins, and his mouth felt full of sand.

Time had passed. Byakuya stood, trembled as he pulled the light yukata around himself. Even then, his flesh responded to the light brush of fabric, igniting an ancient warmth deep inside his belly. He gasped and steadied himself with a splayed hand on the door frame before moving out into the hall, feet padding softly on the floor.

Outside Renji's door, he hesitated. There was time, he realized, to turn back, to go to his room and lay down in his bed, to answer the yearning of his body with his own hands. Yet just beyond the thin, pale paper…

Quietly, he slid the door open and entered, allowing his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. In the presence of Renji, his breath quickened. The man was asleep on the floor; his yukata had slipped open slightly, revealing the tattooed expanses of muscular chest and sculpted shoulders. That red hair spilled down around him in disarray; it fit him, it flattered him. The harsh lines of his face seemed all the more stunning in the dark, the shadows deeper in the hollows beneath his cheek bones, the wan light highlighting the sharp jaw and smooth lips.

Renji stirred, sensing in that incomprehensible way that he was being watched. Slowly, his eyes drifted open, and his brows knit together - confused, Byakuya supposed, as to exactly where he was. Recognition seemed to dawn as he sat up slightly, and beheld his taichou.

"Time…to work again?" He yawned despite himself. "How long has it been?"

"It isn't." Byakuya whispered. He felt lacking in breath, he felt loose and light, as though he could dissipate and float away. He felt like moonlight.

"What…" Renji propped himself up on his elbows.

"Stay." Byakuya rasped. "Stay there."

Finding himself incapable of disobeying, the redhead remained lying down, though it seemed as though every tight, corded muscle in his body had tensed. His lips parted and some strange vocalization between a whimper and a whisper formed in his throat as Byakuya advanced on him, lowering himself to his knees before him.

"Renji." He breathed. Pale, fine hands settled on the redhead's bent knees. Renji's heart pounded as the blanket was tugged down over him, pulling his yukata open as it was slid aside.

"Taichou -"

Byakuya gave him a singular sharp glance, and then looked away, hands quivering as his breath caught in his throat.

"Let me." He murmured, refusing further eye contact. "Just - let me."

The yukata, then, was parted. Renji's body was revealed from the waist , Byakuya thought. Exquisite. The plane of his abdomen was ridged with lean abdominal muscle; his sharp hips protruded slightly, framing the tattooed expanse of tight flesh that gave way to his sex. Renji was impressive, breathtaking. Byakuya felt as though his breath had been taken; he felt as if he was in free fall.

Renji's thighs seemed to open instinctively; he laid down, shaking lightly as long, slim fingers trailed down his sensitive flesh. He knew he was being watched; he could feel those intense grey eyes on his sex as it hardened.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Byakuya had no experience in putting his lips to genitals. Hisana had never expected it or inquired over it, and he suspected it wouldn't have helped him if he had gathered experience in that particular arena. But he could imagine, if he had Renji kneeling before him, what he would want.

Soft, wet lips pressed against the head of Renji's manhood, and he arched immediately, gulping in a sharp intake of air. As a tentative tongue slid beneath to cup the tip of his sex, he felt the urge to reach down, to rake his fingers through that black, silken hair, to sheathe himself in the warm cavern of his mouth. However, he remained still, though his hips strained against the brace.

Between those warm, wet lips, Renji finished hardening. Byakuya could feel the flesh grow as he worked lower and lower, struggling to capture the extent of it in his mouth. Already, Renji panted and writhed, clutching at the floor for something to occupy his hands. Finding no purchase, he gave in to impulse, and has his calloused fingers slid over the satiny cascade of Byakuya's hair, he felt his arousal come close to its peak. Taking the hint, Byakuya massaged Renji's sex one last time with the flat of his tongue, and then abruptly pulled away, finding his lips wet with saliva and precum.

Swiftly, as Byakuya looked on, Renji opened his yukata all the way, revealing his entire body, all planes and angles marked with those tribal tattoos. It was maddening, almost, for Byakuya, who saw such power - raw, pent power - in the sweat coated skin. He placed his palms flat on Renji's chest, and was surprised to find the redhead's sure hands on his upper arms, helping him to straddle his hips. A tremor ran through Byakuya's slender frame as he felt that hard length come to rest against his most tender parts, and further shivered as Renji pulled his white yukata away from him, baring him to the man. Those dark eyes didn't feel the same on him as Hisana's had - the gaze was more hungry, more animal, burning almost.

Though his thighs trembled, Byakuya rose up slightly, and reached beneath himself to position the tip of Renji's sex at his entrance. However, he was stopped by a firm grip on his hip.

"N-no…" Renji panted, stilling himself yet again. "Y-you…I have to get you ready first, or it'll - it'll be bad. It'll hurt."

Byakuya's eyes widened. "Get me ready?" He repeated, voice breathy and husky. "What…what do you mean?"

Renji had never been a man of words. Instead, he preferred action, and at that moment, the action of wetting his fingers with his saliva, thoroughly drenching them to the point of dripping. His taichou watched with rapt attention as he swirled the long digits about in his mouth, and then removed them, and slid his opposite hand beneath him. Two fingers parted Byakuya's cheeks, providing access to the tender passage within. The elder man shuddered as a long, wet finger slid smoothly inside him, stroking nerves he hadn't before known to exist. The second followed and brought about a distinct ache; his face contorted with the pain. Just then, those twisting fingers brushed over something inside of him that caused his hips to arch and a cry to spill from his lips; he was left panting in the wake of it.

"Renji…" The name escaped him in a sigh, half-caught in his throat. He gulped down the thick dryness in his mouth and felt his hips begin to move involuntarily, electrified with sensation after the redhead's teasing.

Teeth clenched together, breath hissing through, Renji held Byakuya's hips, steadying the man as his length sank into the tight passage. Virgin that he was, the taichou had no idea what to expect. The fullness, the stretching, the unearthly bliss provided by that one spot - he cried out, throwing his head back as he was entirely filled. He could feel his orgasm building already, a heavy and sharp pressure that caused his insides to throb and his sex to drip. Gooseflesh rose up all along his narrow shoulders and arched back, even as sweat formed a glowing sheen upon him.

Renji began to move - or rather, began to move him. Byakuya felt as though his thighs had gone entirely limp as his fukutaichou worked his hips up and down, shifting his angle, offering him a new reason to gasp and moan with every well-placed thrust. Despite his nobility, Byakuya found himself moving, rocking his hips onto Renji, grasping at the man's sturdy forearms in an effort to steady himself.

It was like nothing he had ever felt before. It stung, it burned, it caused his vision to blur with the ecstasy of it, it lit every nerve in his body, it made him want to spread his thighs open as wide as they would go, to lunge down, to come and then vanish into oblivion. Renji worked beneath him, gasping and panting and grunting occasionally.

Byakuya's orgasm was already approaching as Renji wrapped his hand around his sex. As those rough fingers milked him, Byakuya's back arched and he cried out, slamming his hips down onto Renji, taking him in as deep as he could as his seed spilled out. The pleasure coursed through him in intense, constant waves. When he was again aware of the world around him, Renji's own seed filled him, warmed him from the inside out. He breathed heavily, and made no eye contact.

Renji expected the man to settle in his arms. If he had known, then, that Byakuya had risen to pull his yukata over his shaking shoulders, he would not have taken the time to catch his breath, to lay back and let his muscles loosen, let the remnants of his climax drift through his consciousness. If he had known that the encounter had nothing to do with any sort of affection, he would not have felt as cold when he realized that Byakuya had gone without a word, back into the dark house.

But he did not know.


End file.
